


Drift

by LithiumDoll



Series: Roadhouse Verse [2]
Category: Road House (1989), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumDoll/pseuds/LithiumDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to draw Jessica's killers to them, Sam and Dean take a job with dangers of its own</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mitchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitchy/gifts).



> This is a sequel to Harvelle's Roadhouse, an SPN/Roadhouse Fusion where the Winchesters are bouncers, not hunters. Just. Just go with it. Not really necessary to read the first one, but it's probably helpful.
> 
> This fic is finished, I'm just obsessively tweaking the last couple of chapters - the rest will be up soon.
> 
> Set early (really early) first season.
> 
> Thank you: Sabaceanbabe and Raine for the beta, any remaining mistakes are entirely mine. They deserve medals. Not even kidding.  
> Feedback: Always appreciated!

It was after midnight and the apartment was littered with shadows, but the streetlight through the curtains let Sam pick his way across the floor without a stubbed toe or a face full of carpet.

When he was half way through the living room, his chest tightened, because maybe Jess left and never came back. A heartbeat later, he saw the silhouette of her jacket and bag, draped across the back of the couch. Her iPod was charging in its dock on the bookshelf and there was a plate of cookies on the breakfast bar.

He breathed out for what felt like the first time in days.

He dropped his bag next to the counter, grabbed a cookie, and shuffled into the bedroom. A familiar shape was curled under the covers; he kept the light off, he didn't want to wake her. As quietly as he could he shucked out of his jacket and toed off his shoes, and then he sat.

The bedsprings creaked under his weight, but Jess didn't wake up.

He smiled and carefully lay on the covers. She moved towards him as the old mattress dipped, but her hand didn't slide over his chest, there was no sleepy murmur.

The skin of her cheek was cold under his fingers and he could smell a copper tang in the air.

" _Jess?"_ He jerked upright, pulled – wrenched – her across his lap and into his arms. In a muted flare of passing headlights, her eyes were wide and dull. Empty.

He'd seen bodies before: he knew the difference between barely there and never coming back. He shouted anyway.

Screamed and begged, and shouted again.

Shook her shoulders and sealed her mouth with his, forced air into lungs that couldn't use it anymore.

Whispered her name with his lips pressed to her temple, rocked her back and forth.

Heard the mechanical click.

The smell of gas began to overwhelm the tang of blood and his breath stuttered. Whether it was to kill him or to cover this murder, the next move was a spark. He should run. He knew he should run.

Her hair was soft and she was in his arms, and he wasn't going anywhere.

The sound of the door slamming in confused him: why would they bother? Then hands were on him, trying to pull him away.

He twisted away, jammed an elbow back into a target that grunted, but didn't fall back. "No, _no_!"

The hands kept tugging. He thought he could hear a voice, but it was far away – until it slammed into him on the heels of a hard cuff to the head. "Sammy. _Sam._ "

"Dean?" Sam stared blankly up and wavered uncertainly.

Dean said something, but Sam couldn't hear him and then, somehow, he was off the bed and being shoved towards the door. He started to resist, but it was too late.

He staggered backwards into the too–bright hallway and Dean kicked the door shut behind them both. Faintly, Sam heard another beep and then a rush of air as the gas ignited. Something slammed against the door from the inside and the fire alarm began to split his head.

" _Go_ ," Dean yelled in his ear, and then pushed him down the corridor when he wasn't quick enough.

Another shove propelled Sam to move faster and he stumbled down stairs that seemed unfamiliar, even though he'd walked them every day. He hit the main door at something like a run and reeled out onto the street.

It was cold, but he could feel the heat of the flames licking out of the apartment windows. Groups of people on the sidewalk chattered amongst themselves; shocked, excited, some laughing.

Dean tugged him over to the Impala, opened the door and sat him in the passenger seat, like Sam was twelve and Eric Sommer had tripped him at recess again. His feet were being shoved into his sneakers and that was ridiculous. He batted Dean's hands away and reached for the laces, but somehow they were already tied.

Two fire trucks swung around the corner and peeled into the street. Pretty quick, Sam thought.

They were pretty quick.

Dean's hand landed on his shoulder. "Sammy, you in there?"

Sam stared at the hand until it dropped away. "How did you know?" His voice sounded stilted and frozen; as if it wasn't his voice, wasn't him speaking.

Dean's gaze darted away and then back. "Later. We're getting the hell out of Dodge."

Sam guessed he zoned out again, because there were fingers snapping in front of his face and he had no idea how they got there. "You in there, Sammy? You listening to me?"

He focused on Dean's hands, the red flakes around his fingernails and the freshly torn skin over his knuckles. Ignored it. "Her parents. I have to call–"

Dean shook his head. "We don't have time."

"I'm not running," Sam whispered, still struggling for sense. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"You came home, had an argument and it got out of control – you hit her and she didn't get up," Dean said woodenly. "You panicked and torched the place to cover it."

Dean sounded so sure that Sam stared up wildly; terrified that was how it went down. What air he had was punched out in a rush and he gasped shallow breaths as the world grayed at the edges.

Dean swore and his fingers dug hard into Sam's shoulders. "Sammy, I swear to God, I will tell you everything, but right now, put your feet in the car and let's go."

_It's history and Sam's six; it's midnight and Dad's dropped him on the backseat with the sleeping bags, and they're leaving everything he knows all over again._

Sam pulled his feet into the car and Dean slammed the door. The next second they were around the corner and the second after that they were on the empty highway. Sam thought if he gave it another second, just one more second, they'd be in another state; he had to stop _now_.

He watched as his hand reached out to the wheel and pulled, hard.

Dean jerked the wheel back around with a bitten–off curse and then they were spinning. The world outside blurred into a cloud of dust as Dean fought the Impala and Sam lost time again: in the next second they were on a dirt access road and Dean was staring at him, white-faced and wide-eyed. "Dude, what the hell?"

Sam shrugged and counted off the seconds on his watch. He waited five, just to be sure, and then said, "Sorry."

Dean managed a smile, but it didn't quite cover for the death grip he had on the wheel or the clenched jaw. He swallowed a couple of times and didn't reply.

"You said you'd tell me," Sam whispered. "Tell me."

Dean dropped a hand to the keys, but he didn't start the engine again. "We had a tail the last few miles coming back. I figured they'd follow me, but I lost them at the freeway. Made a one–eighty, found them parked up outside your apartment, asked a few questions …"

Sam processed this as he watched the last of the dust fall out of the light. Dimly he realized Dean had been trying to lead them away, but the only thing he could see was Jess' eyes, wide and accusing. "If we'd have been quicker," he managed at last. "If we'd just –"

Dean shook his head firmly. "Whoever they were, they killed her hours ago. They were just waiting for you."

" _Whoever they were?_ " Sam wanted to yell, but the anger wouldn't come; there was just this empty space where everything real used to be. "It was Meg. You know it was Meg."

"Maybe," Dean said after a beat. "Maybe it was Meg. Or maybe it was Ava Gallagher. Maybe it wasn't either of them. They wouldn't say. Dad will know. We find Dad, we find who did this."

Sam glanced at him and didn't fight the laughter that welled up out of nothing; Dean flinched. "For all we know, they already took out Dad and this was just … just cleaning up."

Dean's mouth tightened. "We'll find him and we deal with this," he repeated stubbornly, like that would make it true.

" _Deal_ with it?" Sam stared incredulously. "Jess is _dead_ , and she's dead because of _me_. You can't _fix_ that. You can't _deal_ with that."

"This wasn't your fault." Dean raised his hand sharply and then didn't seem to know what to do with it – no one to hit, no punch to block; he dropped it back to the wheel. "You want to blame someone? You blame the bastards who killed her or – or you blame me for not taking the Harvelle job instead of you. This isn't your fault, you hear me?"

Sam looked away, but he could still see Dean staring at him in the window – a shadow behind him. His own reflection was dark, indistinct, but his eyes glittered. "Drive," he said.

Dean drove and Sam counted seconds, just to make sure they were still there.

–o–

At dawn, Sam wasn't exactly asleep, but he wasn't exactly awake either. Some place quiet, in between. The quiet slipped away when Dean cleared his throat and asked, "You thirsty? Hungry? You need to stop?"

"Dean, I'm not a kid." His mouth was dry and his throat felt sandpapered over; he coughed and tasted smoke, swallowed and tasted blood.

Dean gnawed at his lip for a second and then said, "There's a diner in a few miles, if you want to wash up. Get something to eat?"

Sam stared out at the night–streaked sky; it was a sullen, empty blue. "I'm not hungry."

"Get hungry, we're stopping."

"I don't want to stop," Sam said carefully, in the most reasonable tone he could hold. "I want to find Dad and then kill the son of a bitch who killed my – my – who killed Jess."

"Then you have to take care of yourself," Dean replied in a tone so similar that Sam would have thought it was mockery, if it weren't for the worry in Dean's eyes. "You do it for her."

After a moment, Sam nodded grudgingly. A sluggish thought threw up a flare. "How'd you know about the diner? You came down here?"

Dean shrugged. "Did a job, year ago maybe. Just a couple of nights."

"You busted your arm a year ago," Sam countered. "Bobby said you didn't work for two months. Why were you really here?"

"Sherri. Or, Shandi? Maybe Brandi – it's been a while." Dean's smirk was almost perfunctory.

"You didn't come by," Sam pressed.

Dean glanced at him, expression closed. "You want to do this now? Seriously?"

Ever since he was a kid, Sam had offset one hurt with another. A sprained ankle and he'd dig his nails into his palm. A cracked rib and he'd bite the inside of his cheek.

Always, always the pain he could control over the pain he couldn't.

Dad told him not to come back and Sam had left Dean behind.

"No," he said at last and ignored the flicker of relief in Dean's eyes. He turned his attention back to the road. "We smell like smoke."

"There's a motel, we can get a room. Shower. Maybe even sleep a few hours."

"Whatever."

–o–

The pressure was low, but the water was hot. Sam showered without really noticing either, just the blood that spiraled into the drain at his feet. The water ran clear and it felt like he'd lost something all over again.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he saw the bag on the bed. Not the bag he took to Ellen's, the one he'd left behind when he went to Stanford: one more unreal thing. "You kept it?"

Dean shrugged. "Threw it in the trunk and forgot about it. You leave any clothes?"

Sam excavated through the layers of four years gone. There were clothes – a shirt, a pair of jeans, socks rolled in careful bundles.

When he looked up again, Dean was gone and the shower was running. He dressed slowly, rolling the too–short shirtsleeves up to his elbows before he dug further into the bag.

There were a couple of books from a library in Montana, worn and scuffed with reading. A gun and a sheathed knife; he touched a finger to the edge of a blade and discovered it was oiled and sharp. Dean's definition of 'forgot' had always been a little different.

He felt like a snake crawling into an old skin. It was uncomfortable and tight, and he'd shed it for a reason. He slipped the books away and tucked the gun under his shirt at the small of his back.

"You want to go eat?" Dean asked, standing awkwardly at the door.

Dean had showered and dressed, he was even wearing his jacket. Sam shook his head and tried to make the world sharpen; it resisted.

"Food. Come on." Dean steered him out the door.

The diner was too bright and the tables glinted with polished vinyl, throwing glare into his eyes until they began to sting and water. He ducked his head with a wince and somewhere to his left, a woman made a sympathetic clucking sound. "You okay, hon?"

"He's fine," Dean said cheerfully. "Little too much fun last night, know what I mean? Gotta get him sobered up for work. Coffee, bacon, eggs over easy – hey, you still do that blueberry pie?"

The woman laughed, warm and easy. "We sure do."

Sam didn't look up, but from the woman's quieter giggle a few seconds later, he guessed Dean had given her the smile he's been using to win over diner waitresses since he was a kid.

When she was gone, Sam risked looking up. The colors weren't bleeding into each other anymore, but they were swimming – drowning – in the overhead lights.

He squinted until the world narrowed to a thin strip of light and shadow, and that helped. A little. "Where are we?"

"Just out of Greenfield."

Sam held his hand out. "Give me your cell, I want to call Dad."

Dean leaned back, well out of reach. "I tried, okay? Three times. It's going to voicemail."

Sam scowled and impatiently gestured for the phone. "I don't care; I'll leave him a message."

Dean's hands slipped into his pockets. "This is whatever the hell the 'my girlfriend just died' version of drunk-dialing is. No."

" _What_?" Sam shouted. Heads turned and eyes stared curiously. He grit his teeth and spoke in a painful whisper. "Give me the phone, _Dean_."

"Not in the middle of a freaking _diner_ ," Dean whispered back, and then gestured at the television. "Not when you might be starring on the damn news."

The saccharine murmur of breakfast TV joined the jagged confusion in Sam's head and he slumped again.

Dean relaxed enough to lean forward again and softened his tone. "Sit, eat and get it together, okay? Here."

A cup of coffee nudged at Sam's fingers and he wrapped his hands around it reflexively. It warmed his skin and then burned it; he welcomed the anchor.

Two seconds, three traffic updates, a dropped tray and a car alarm later, and breakfast appeared. Sam nodded to the waitress and more or less managed a smile.

One bite of toast and he gagged, bolting for the restroom and sending cutlery clattering the floor in his wake. He was dry retching when Dean appeared in the doorway a few seconds – minutes – hours – later.

Sam shrugged the hand that dropped onto his shoulder away and staggered over to the sink. He washed his mouth out and ran handfuls of water over his face, dragged his fingers through his hair and felt the cold settle into him.

The world snapped back into stark focus at last.

His knees shook with something too wrenching to be relief; he caught himself on the sink before he fell.

A hand gripped his arm and Dean's eyes warily met his in the mirror. "You with me now?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded as he tightened his grip on the sink, watched his expression harden into something he barely recognized. "Yeah, I'm here. _Why_ are we here?"

"Dad's got a job in a bar in Coalinga."

Sam released his grip and straightened. "Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

The Drift Inn reminded Sam of Ellen’s place: so run down it was a part of the land, grown up out of the scrub. A dirt lot surrounded the single–story wooden building and a traveled–looking Harley Road King was parked up next to the double doors.

The inside was low lit, dust–covered windows turned grime and age into something that passed for comfortable.

A scarred wooden bar stretched almost the length of the room and the wall behind it was covered with an enormous mirror, frame decked out in faded photos and old flags, and whatever else someone had been able to put a pin in or hang on a hook.

Empty tables were scattered across the floorboards and dark booths huddled against the walls. A brightly colored jukebox and a new pool table sat almost incongruously in one corner, while the next corner housed a stack of broken up chairs and half a table on a disused stage.

At the end of the bar, beyond a pair of swing doors, was a cramped looking kitchen with a cooking station that had seen better decades – even in the half–light, Sam could see grease slicking up the ceiling.

Dean had relaxed almost as soon as he’d smelled the stale beer and nicotine of something like home; Sam just tried not to touch anything.

“I don’t know what to tell you, kid.” The man behind the bar – Sam didn’t catch his name – shrugged thin shoulders and stowed another glass. “He never showed. Ed was pissed.”

“Gotta hate it when that happens, huh?” Dean hid his concern behind an easy smile, but Sam saw the tension. He doubted the barman did.

A shadow fell across the entrance. Dean moved back, finding position as Sam turned to see the source. Old habits, he recognized dully. Just waiting.

The man standing in the doorway was older than the barman, well into his forties, with graying shoulder–length hair, held back with a frayed red and white bandana. He was running to fat, but Sam could see the linebacker in the breadth of the shoulders and the height – he wasn’t more than a couple inches off Sam himself.

While the barman was in jeans and a faded check shirt, the new guy wore a threadbare leather vest with no patches, heavy boots, and an assortment of tattoos in blues and blacks.

Sam guessed this would be the Harley’s owner and probably the Drift’s too.

“Ed,” the barman confirmed by way of introduction and then looked to the other man. “They’re looking for that Winchester guy.”

Ed’s expression darkened as he paced heavily towards the bar. “Never showed, left me and Rafe here in a hell of a way. What’re you after him for?”

Sam could see Dean weighing stories, weighing lies, and spoke quickly. “He’s family.” Dean frowned; Sam ignored him. “He never bailed on a job in his life. He’s missing.”

Ed’s expression shifted until there was grudging sympathy under the anger. “I’m sorry to hear that, but it don’t make our troubles any less.”

“We’ll work the floor,” Dean said.

Ed laughed, but Rafe looked speculative. “You his boys?”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, ignoring Ed with more restraint than Sam would have ever given him credit for. “Dean and Sam.”

“Hire them,” Rafe instructed briskly. “They’ll do.”

“Dean, can I talk to you?” Sam smiled brightly at the two men and then tugged Dean back away, while Ed did about the same to Rafe.

Dean held up a hand and spoke before Sam could ask him what the hell he was thinking. “No, _listen_ , okay?

“We take the job, but we put it out that John Winchester’s running the floor. Dad doesn’t want to be found, we’re not going to find him. So maybe this way we bring Meg or Ava or whoever the hell’s after us here instead.”

Sam stared for a moment and then nodded slowly. “That’s a pretty good plan.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, thanks. Try less surprise next time, dude.”

They both watched in polite silence as Rafe spoke to Ed in low, urgent tones. Sam couldn’t make out any words, but there were some animated gestures and Ed’s expression slowly ran from bemused, through impressed and ended up a little disconcerted. When Rafe was done with his sales pitch, Ed looked over. “You boys want the job?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said with all sincerity. “We do.”

–o–

While Sam was picking up a junk car and a little job history, Dean checked into the Sunrise Motel. It was a half hour from the bar – close enough to be practical, far enough away that most drunks with a grudge weren’t going to make it. The décor was a little scary, with the whole black and white check thing going on, but he didn’t count more than a couple roaches in the sink.

Good enough.

When everything was stowed, he left a short update on Bobby’s voicemail, and then discovered there was nothing left to distract him. Even the cute blonde with the blue corvette had disappeared.

When his cell rang a quarter hour later, he was grateful enough for the distraction that he answered without checking the ID.

Mistake.

“What the hell were you _thinking_?” Bobby roared, so loudly that the line cracked and popped.

Dean jerked the phone away from his ear, put it carefully on a side table, and then took the opportunity to dig some chips out from the bottom of his bag. When the tinny tirade had died away and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be deafened, he picked the cell back up and cautiously brought it to his ear.

“Hey, Bobby,” he said mildly. “It’s cool, I’ve got a plan.”

“Boy, you’d light a stick of dynamite and call it a plan,” Bobby growled, but more quietly.

“We can handle this,” Dean said confidently – they could totally handle this.

“A girl’s dead, the police got some searching questions for Sam, Ava Gallagher’s single wish in life is to see John take two in the head, and Megan Resh wants your hearts raw. Tell me again you can _handle_ it.”

Appetite gone, Dean dropped the bag of chips on his bed, unopened. “Dad’s not picking up his phone and Sam’s ready to go do God knows what to God knows who – what would you do, Bobby?”

“I sure as hell wouldn’t hang up a neon sign announcing it’s hunting season.”

Dean smirked. “At least we’ll see them coming.”

Bobby huffed and finally managed a normal volume. “And the people you’re working for? You don’t think they got enough problems?”

“You heard something?”

“No, but no one hires John Winchester just because the crowd’s a little rowdy, and you know it. Whatever they got going on, walk away – it’s for their good as much as yours. You come on over to the yard, we’ll work things out from there. Hell, head back to Ellen’s place, she’ll keep you both hid.”

Given the wary looks they’d been getting from the local cops before they left, Dean really doubted they’d be welcome. Besides. “We can’t walk away, Bobby, we already took the job. Anyway, Dad sent us here.”

There was a long moment of silence and then, “Run that by me again?”

“This was the last place he was meant to be, right?” Dean said, warming to his theory. “He knew if he dropped the job, I’d pick it up, so he knows we’re here. He’ll come when it’s safe. Makes sense.”

“John wasn’t thinking about anything except Ava’s hit list,” Bobby snapped. “He ran, Dean. And he’d figure you and Sam were smart enough to do the same.”

If Bobby were standing right there, right now, Dean would punch him out. From the sudden silence, Bobby knew it. After a few frozen seconds, Bobby said, “You’re gonna need help,” like it never happened.

Dean’s life was a litany of _never happened_. “Thanks, Bobby,” he said, and even meant it. “We got it for now. I’ll call if we need the cavalry, okay?”

“You’ll call every morning, Dean. I don’t hear from you, I’m coming down there.”

“Hey, let’s not over–react here…”

Bobby hung up a little harder than necessary and Dean dropped the cell on his bed. He picked up the chips again and ate them without tasting anything, watched the local news channel without listening.

Sam hadn’t been gone so long. Factor in picking up the car, the drive – getting the goods out of Ed and Rafe – he probably wouldn’t show for another hour or so.

Dean told himself that every few minutes until a rapid knock at the door. He took his time opening it and knew he was rocking _yeah, whatever_ when he did. Okay, so Sam looked at him a little weird, but that was nothing new. “We good?”

“Yeah.” Sam glanced around the room once and then dismissed it. “How much do you know about the Drift?”

“Not a damn thing.” Dean claimed a seat at the small table by the window. ”What are we looking at?”

Sam took the seat opposite and dumped a pile of staff files between them. “Usual problems on the floor and something weird with the staff. They’ve had a bar tender, a porter and _three_ bouncers disappear in the last year.

“Ed took it to the police, but the cops said there was no reason to investigate. Four of the five were on parole. Official line is they skipped. The last one was a month ago, a college student working his way home, but they’re still not looking into it.”

“Five people go missing and there’s no reason to investigate.” Dean frowned. “Sound right to you?”

Sam smiled humorlessly. “Not so much. Ed and Rafe figured if someone was scaring off the staff, they’d hire people who didn’t scare so easy.”

“Right, because those ex–cons, they scare like little girls.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Any other places had the same problem?”

“Just the Drift, as far as anyone knows. Doesn’t seem to be any reason for it, no debts, no one’s leaning on them. Ed took over the place after his brother went inside in ninety-nine. _Joe_ Reed did five over at the Supermax, had a heart attack the same week he got out – people started disappearing right after.”

Dean whistled sympathetically – dumb freaking luck.

“That was about a year ago. Here’s where it gets interesting: Joe went down for bank robbery. His accomplices were killed in a shoot out with the cops, but Joe made it out. Then he turned himself in the next day on some kind of deal, so he got out early.

“The thing is: the money’s still missing. He denied ever having it, but scuttlebutt is he hid it in the bar.”

Dean leaned back with a grin. “And the ex–cons who worked there…”

“Were out of the Supermax. Exactly.” Sam smiled tightly. “Best guess? He made promises for protection and when he died, the people he told started sniffing around the most likely hiding place.”

It didn’t explain the missing college kid, or who’d taken the treasure hunters out, but it was a start. “Sweet, maybe we’ll find it.” Dean nodded at the files. “What about the current staff?”

Sam shrugged and fanned some blurry, photocopied papers. “Rafe Medina came in with Ed when he took over the place – they’re friends from back in the day, whenever that was. He tends bar. Haley Jones and Lynn Dale wait tables, Jada Rosales tends bar and waits. There’s a cook – Ken Haro – and his porter, Roy Smith.”

“Smith. Jones.” Dean smirked. “Gotta love the classics.”

“Haro was on staff when Ed and Rafe took over, Lynn and Jada came on after Joe died. Smith and Jones hired on a couple weeks ago.

“None of them say they’ve been threatened and none of the people who went missing said anything out of the ordinary to them.” Sam finished, still without consulting the papers in front of him.  

“Thorough. Guess that college education was good for something.”

Sam shot him a flat glare of irritation, which was better than washed out shock or glaze–eyed and vengeful, so Dean called it a win. “Anything else?”

“We got Outlaws.” Sam almost smiled at Dean’s heartfelt groan. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that. Joe gave them a pass, but Ed hired on a guy to get rid of them after he died.” The small almost–smile appeared again. “Rufus Turner.”

“ _Rufus_. Man.” Dean blinked. “I thought he retired.”

“Guess not. He moved on when they decided to hire Dad, guess he’s still not over Salt Lake. Anyway, Ed’s money’s on the Outlaws for the disappearing staff. Ed thought Dad being there would get them to back off. That’s pretty long term.”

Dean nodded, not missing the tight set of Sam’s shoulders. He had maybe a week, maybe not even that, and then Sam would walk away whether the job was done or not.

And Winchesters didn’t walk on a job. Ever.

Which left the prize behind Door Number Three. “So we figure out what’s going on, clean up the floor and then we’re gone. Two weeks, tops,” Dean tried.

“One,” Sam said flatly. “One week. If Meg hasn’t shown by then, I’m going to find her.”

Dean huffed a laugh and didn’t bother to explain when Sam raised an eyebrow. “So, what? We get whoever it is pissed enough to go for us, see what happens?”

Sam shrugged. “You got a better plan?”

Dean shook his head. “Not according to Bobby.”

–o–

Haley had sharp, wary eyes and a bright, brittle smile. An hour before open, a kid – her brother, maybe – had come in and they’d whispered with their heads together, darting furtive, desperate glances at each other. Sam had watched from his seat at the bar, but he didn’t approach, didn’t ask, and didn’t want to know. Everyone was running from something.

Dean, on the other hand, was a moth to a flame. He orbited Haley, teasing and flirting in turns. Haley rolled her eyes and swatted him away with an order pad while Roy glowered from behind the swing doors of the kitchen.

He was a sharp–featured man with hard eyes, nicotine stained fingers and a smirk almost identical to Dean’s. At first, Sam had assumed he was with Haley, but while their body language was familiar, it wasn’t intimate. That and the guy looked old enough to be her father.

Sam kept an eye on Roy anyway, because something in the way he carried himself reminded Sam of the bouncers who came out of the forces. Whatever Roy told Ed and Rafe when he hired on, the man was _not_ a career kitchen porter

A stale roll hit Roy on the back of the head; he turned to yell something at Haro and disappeared from sight.

“Guess your brother doesn’t follow his old man’s rules, huh?” Rafe finished polishing a glass and stacked it away. “Haley’s not that kind of girl, Lynn’s more his speed.”

Lynn was a pretty bottle blonde, pushing forty and fighting back with an arsenal of low cut tops, short skirts, bright lipstick and, Sam suspected, more than a little work here and there. Her fingers glittered with cheap, chunky rings and there was an angel–wing tattoo at the small of her back.

At the other end of the bar, she shot Rafe a glare that was two parts amusement and one part something else. Something hot. Wanting. Maybe they’d been together once. That wasn’t Sam’s business either.

Rafe was right, though: she was more Dean’s type, and that’s why Dean wouldn’t do more than smile politely, no matter how many times she brushed against him.

Rule five: do not get involved with the staff. As far as Sam knew, Dean had never broken one of their father’s rules in his life. Unlike Sam – or the great John Winchester himself. “We’re professionals,” Sam said at last, as Rafe seemed to be waiting for a reply. “That’s why you hired us.”

“Professionals who want us to say we hired John Winchester,” Rafe pointed out evenly.

Sam spoke as reassuringly as he could. “Reputation is everything to our father; he’d be here if he could. And you guys are getting a good deal – half what you’d pay him for both of us.”

Rafe held his hands out and let them fall. “Hey, I’m not complaining. It’s just … a little weird, I guess.”

Sam nodded. It was a little weird.

He turned so he could watch Jada play pool at the other end of the bar. She sank ball after ball with clipped, mathematical precision, and a thin line of concentration between her eyebrows. The little silver stars that tied off her cornrows shimmered in the overhead light; they matched the silver stars on her nails and the designer glasses perched just so on her nose. She was so far out of this dive’s league, Sam wondered if she’d taken a wrong turn at the Interstate.

Rafe followed his gaze and grinned widely. “Every now and again we get some dumbass who thinks he can beat her. Most of the regulars know better by now.”

“Dean’ll try it,” Sam said with a wry smile.

“And he’ll lose,” Rafe returned, with the amicable, but flat assurance of experience.

Sam smiled a little and drank the rest of his soda – no alcohol, not when they were working. “Depends what’s on the table.”


	3. Chapter 3

The first patrons filed in soon after opening. Sam stayed at the end of the bar, keeping a clear view over the floor while Dean hung by the door with a beer he wasn’t really drinking. Every now and then he raised the bottle to his lips and Sam clocked where his fingers were placed on the neck: one for a knife, two for a gun, three for something else.

Around nine, traffic lulled. There were two guns and five knives in the contraband box, a _something else_ on the floor, and the Outlaws hadn’t even arrived yet. They abandoned their posts to talk in relative privacy behind a stack of broken chairs. “What did you let through?” Sam asked, curious, when Dean was close enough to hear him.

“Pretty sure we got a badge,” Dean nodded towards the end of the bar.

In a sea of denim and white t–shirts, the man was wearing a rumpled suit, no tie. He seemed relaxed enough at first glance. Second glance, Sam realized there was something just a little too focused about him. Almost hungry.

He nodded agreement and then tilted his head toward the other side of the room. “There’s a dealer in the corner booth, he could be here for her.”

“Cops and dealers. Real high class house.” Dean grinned and then pushed past to take Sam’s place at the bar. Sam rolled his eyes and headed to take the door.

An hour later the box was half-full and he heard the rumble of motorbikes over the eighth play of _Master of Puppets_ and – seriously – if the Outlaws didn’t kill him, he was shooting the jukebox.

He caught Dean’s attention in the bar mirror. Dean drew back from his conversation with Rafe and made his way over. “Rafe says the cop’s been coming in for a while,” he half–shouted over the music. “The dealer too – we can take them later.”

Ed had been ignoring the guns and knives; he’d probably have done the same for the dealer, if the cop hadn’t shown up. Classy.

“The MC’s here.” Sam said, and pushed his way out the door.

“Rule one?” Dean asked when they hit the clean night air; his voice sounded unnaturally sharp, loud in the comparative silence.

“Don’t under–estimate your opponent,” Sam answered automatically. “Expect the unexpected.” He used to get so pissed when Dean did this, but it felt different now. “Rule two?”

“Take it outside,” Dean said, and looked around at the expanse of parking lot, mostly empty of people. “Never start anything in the bar unless it’s absolutely necessary.” His smile turned lopsided. “Rule three still ‘be nice’, Sammy? Or can we go back to ‘if you have to hit, hit hard’?”

“Be nice until it’s time not to be nice,” Sam said evenly, not rising to the jab. “Then hit hard,” he added after a moment.

There were six bikers. Dean backed away as they walked forward, until he was just another body in the background: the one they wouldn’t see coming.

Once, that had been Sam’s job and he was obscurely pleased that Dean was letting him front for once, and then angry on the heels of that – he wasn’t a kid anymore and Dean didn’t get to _let_ him do anything.

He locked the flash of anger down and drew himself up from his slouch with a politely impersonal smile. “Evening,” he said to the first man to make it to the door.

The biker came to a slow stop and raised his chin enough that, even some two inches shorter, he was looking down his nose at Sam. Gray hair was cropped close, and his cheekbone had been broken at least twice. His cut was patched and pocked, with stitched holes and slashes, worn like badges. There were plenty of those too. A scar stretched half way across his throat, thick and old. When he spoke, his voice was ragged. “They think _you_ can keep us out?”

Sam amped his smile closer to pleasant, but he didn’t try to take the bite out of his reply. “Guess that doesn’t say a whole lot for you guys, huh?” It was a strange rush to be the belligerent one, picking the fight; he wondered if that was why Dean did it.

“You got a sack on you,” the man rasped, narrowing his eyes, but not before Sam caught a flicker of amusement. “You want to keep it?”

He hadn’t expected the humor and despite himself, Sam responded more or less politely. “There’s other bars, maybe you’d prefer one of those.”

“We like this bar,” said another, younger, biker with a long, thin face and a black bandana with a grinning white skull. While the older man’s violence ran under his skin this one was jumpy, on the floor he’d spell trouble.

“You like it so much you keep running the staff off?” He asked mildly, still watching the older man’s expression.

It didn’t change, except for a hint of a smirk. “They got staff problems; that’s nothing to do with us. Maybe they should stop hiring unskilled labor.”

You knew if someone was going to be trouble, usually in the first three seconds, and now Sam wanted to push back, provoke the fight he was sure wouldn’t be coming otherwise.

He hadn’t realized how ready he’d been for it and his fists ached with the effort of not lashing out.

He’d told Rafe they were professionals; he’d be a professional. 

“They felt the same way,” he said, and relaxed his hands. A second later, he remembered to smile.

Maybe it wasn’t as friendly as he’d thought, though, because the bikers stood taller; one took a wary step forward. The older man half raised a hand and studied him for a long moment. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Winchester.”

There was a ripple of recognition from the bikers and sometimes that was a bad thing. Some people took the name to mean they had something to prove.

“Winchester,” the biker repeated – doubtful, but not doubtful enough that he was outright calling Sam a liar. “That’s not a name to throw around, kid,” he hedged.

“No, it’s not.” Sam agreed. “A few guys have tried it. We always send flowers to the hospital.” Or the widows, he didn’t add. It was true, but it seemed a little over-dramatic. “My father and brother are around, if you wanted to check our IDs?”

He stood calmly as the biker studied him, kept his posture balanced: no aggression, no hostility, and no challenge.

After another long moment, the man measured out a nod. “See you around.”

“What?” Bandana took a step closer and almost immediately realized his mistake when he found himself staring eight inches up at someone disinclined to move.

When Sam crossed his arms, he stepped back and snarled. “You’re taking this, Silas? He’s just a punk kid.”

Silas curled his lip and jerked his hand back towards the bikes. The bikers turned and walked; Bandana scowled, but finally did the same. Sam waited until the bikes had roared out of the lot and the headlights were just pinpricks of light before he looked at Dean, despite himself curious what the reaction would be.

Dean grinned approvingly as he walked closer. “I liked part with the flowers – nice touch. I’d have golf clapped, but it might have ruined the moment.”

“You rate me and I _will_ punch you in the face,” Sam said levelly. It wasn’t quite amusement, but it was half way there and guilt chased it – Jess was dead and Meg was still alive and he didn’t get to make jokes.

Maybe Dean got it. “They’ll be back,” he said, levity gone. “And the little one looks like a pain in the ass. Yappy dogs, I swear, dude.”

Sam nodded and looked past him. A figure in a pulled–up hoodie was lurking next to an old, rust–red pinto with his hands jammed into his pockets. “That Haley’s brother over there?”

Dean turned. “Tommy? Yeah, that’s him.”

Sure, of course Dean knew his name. Sam raised a hand and beckoned the kid over.

Tommy walked closer, pulling iPod buds out of his ears, wariness radiating. Sam had put him at college age, but he downgraded that to high school as the kid drew closer.

Didn’t matter, wasn’t his problem. “You going to be out here for a while?” he asked.

Tommy nodded, a little wide–eyed. “Until close. I wait for Haley,” he said haltingly. “I can stay in the car, if that’s illegal or whatever …”

Sam cut him off. “You’re working for us, okay? You’ll get paid and all you have to do is use your cell. You see the bikers come back, you text me nine–one–one, then you get in the car and you keep your head down.

“If I text you nine–one–one, you call the cops and get them over for a pick up. Got it?”

Tommy nodded rapidly. “Sure, I got it,” he mumbled. “You don’t have to pay, I’d do it anyway.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder with slightly less than his usual force. “ _Always_ get paid, Tommy – it’s how people know you’re worth something.”

John Winchester’s pearls of wisdom, reaching out to whole new generations; Sam tried not to grimace as he programmed his number into Tommy’s cell and entered Tommy’s number into his own. He turned to Dean once the kid had fled back to his car. “You want the cop or the dealer?”

“I’ll take the cop first; you take the dealer if it isn’t a sting.” Dean shrugged indifferently. “Rafe says it’s mostly regulars tonight. They won’t kick it ‘til later, there’s time to be polite.”

–o–

Dean checked Sam’s position at the door and then leaned against the bar, next to the badge. He waited until the man glanced over and then smiled his brightest smile. “Evening, Officer.”

The man’s expression flattened and he twisted on his stool. He looked pissed, but didn’t try to deny it. “You’re good. The last guy didn’t make me.”

Dean shrugged and dialed down a little on the obnoxious smile. “Trust me, he made you. Rufus just isn’t a people person. Besides I’ve seen a lot of cops.”

The man smirked and pulled a mouthful from his bottle of beer. “Yeah, I bet you have.”

Dean grinned; secure in the knowledge he had no outstanding warrants in the fine state of Colorado.

He was pretty sure.

“You here for the pharmaceuticals rep?” He nodded at the dealer in the corner. She was pressed against a man with bad taste in shirts and worse taste in haircuts, Dean watched as a small packet of something passed between them. “Because unless you got something going on, she’s getting bounced out of here on her ass.”

“Maybe I’m here for the ambiance.” The cop smiled a little, making no particular effort to sell the lie or pull out a badge.

“Sure, it’s here and the Voodoo Lounge. If you’re not after her, it’s the missing staff,” Dean guessed. “Thought the police were sitting on that?”

The man raised his bottle in a barfly salute. “Special Agent Henriksen – I’m with the Bureau and we prefer to stand. Why’d you take the job, if you knew about this place? You looking for the money?”

However much Henriksen had drunk, it wasn’t enough to blur the sharpness in his eyes or dull his uncomfortably intent scrutiny.

Dean didn’t blink. “Nah – they have great pretzels.” He reached over and picked one up, chewed on it happily and then stepped away. “See you later, Very Special Agent Henriksen.”

“Wiseass.” Henriksen scowled half–heartedly and turned back to his beer.

When Dean gave him the nod, Sam abandoned his position at the door and cut through the crowd, towards the booth where the dealer had set up shop.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lynn watching, her expression sour. When she caught his eye she half-smiled and shrugged: ‘what can you do?’ in every line. He guessed she’d find out.

A man with an expression that probably passed for clandestine after four shots of tequila was sliding in; Sam stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and then took the seat himself. The dealer was younger than he’d thought; about his age, he guessed, with dark hair past her shoulders, dark red, almost black lipstick and thickly applied liner.

She looked up at him, eyes hard and calculating in the instant before she smiled with an artful touch of rueful humor. “New guy. Hi.” She offered her hand, as if it was some kind of board meeting. “Danica.”

Sam ignored the gesture. “You need to find another place to do business, Danica.”

Danica’s smile became a pout and, undeterred, she slid her hand across the table towards his wrist. “You sure you want me to do that?”

“Me, the owners and the cop at the bar, yeah.” Sam sat back, pulling his hands away and letting them fall into his lap.

The teasing expression disappeared and her eyes narrowed. “I had an understanding with Clinton.”

One of the bouncers on the staff list; he’d been the last person to go missing before Ben, the college kid. “Clinton isn’t here anymore,” Sam pointed out. ”Maybe you know where he went.”

She leaned forward, hair falling to frame eyes that suddenly glittered with interest. “You and me get an understanding and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Sam made a non–committal sound. Apparently, she was just about desperate enough to take him as sold.

“I paid him twenty percent, once a week, but he never came for his last cut. The cops say he skipped town, but no way. You’re dodging parole; you need all the money you can get.”

Sam nodded; she wasn’t wrong. “Okay. So why here?”

“What?” She tensed and drew back, suddenly cagey.

“There’s three bars on this stretch alone and you’re giving up twenty percent just to deal out of this one?” He grinned and made an educated guess. “You’re looking for the money too. Want to tell me again what happened to Clinton? Or there’s a cop at the bar you can tell instead.”

Her mouth tightened; she grabbed her bag and began to slide out of the booth. “I’m gone, okay?”

“Wait.” He reached out to hold her arm and felt muscle tighten under his fingers. She hissed under her breath; he relaxed his grip. “What do you know, Danica?”

“A lot of things.” She jerked away and then wavered, stopped and glared down. “You change your mind about making a deal? You come find me and maybe I’ll even tell you some of them.”

She stalked away across the floor; Dean smirked and bowed as she passed. She ignored him and left with her shoulders straight and her head high.

Sam slid back out of the booth and then turned at a heavy tap on his shoulder. Whiskey breath washed over him and he wrinkled his nose. The smell was one of the patrons Dean had relieved of a knife: a man in his late thirties with slicked back hair and cheap cologne.

“ _Hey_.” The man shoved drunkenly, following when Sam stepped back and twisted away. “She’s a friend of mine. You be _polite_ to friends of mine,” he slurred. “You know who I _am_?”

There was another lurching attempt at a push and Sam stepped back again – if he could lure the guy out the door, they were halfway done. “Sorry,” he said. _Nicely_. “Why don’t we go discuss it someplace quieter?”

The man blinked blearily at him as he tried to come up with some kind of answer. Sam slipped a hand into his pocket and texted 911 to Tommy. Response time had to be pretty good – a stretch this lined with bars would have a couple of black and whites on rotation.

“My _fist_ can discuss it with your _face_ ,” the man finally managed and gave a wet laugh at his own brilliance. Sam grimaced and hoped, really hoped, that Dean wasn’t close enough to hear.

“Yeah, right – you can’t even stand up straight,” Dean said gleefully from somewhere behind them.

Sam groaned under his breath, because – unless Sam stopped him – Dean would feed the drunk patron straight line after straight line, trying to get the responses he wanted for the Winchester version of family–rules Bingo. 

“I bet you can’t even fight without that rusted up pig sticker you call a knife,” Dean started, hopefully.

“I can stick _you_ ,” the drunk yelled, and his hand went disjointedly to his belt. “ _Pig._ ”

Dean grinned to Sam over the man’s head, mouthed ‘bingo’, and then dangled the knife by the blade in front of its owner’s face. “Looking for this?”

The man roared again and snatched unsuccessfully at the knife – probably because he was seeing three of them. “I’ll take you apart, you hear me? Both of you!”

Sam glared at Dean and then looked meaningfully to the door.

“Fine,” Dean said, as much to Sam as to the target of his amusement, and then gestured towards the door. “You and me, pal. Outside.”

The man left in a flurry of insults and slurred promises; Dean watched with a bemused smile and made no effort to follow. In the couple of minutes it took for the drunk to stop yelling threats and realize no one was coming, a patrol car pulled up.

Sam blinked. “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

“Me either.” Dean handed the knife off to Rafe; it went back in the box with all the other sharp objects.

“Me either,” said a voice behind them, barely audible against the now AC/DC–filled background.

Sam spun and saw a man in a gray t–shirt with a band emblem so faded it was barely there. Add in the torn up jeans and the tan duster, the messy dark hair, and he was what Jess called – _called_ – starving indie chic.

Not someone Sam would expect to see in a place like this.

“Dean.” The man nodded soberly.

“Cas!” Dean shouted over the music.

Cas, whoever he was, didn’t seem to know exactly what to do when Dean pulled him into a fast hug and then clapped him on the shoulder, except widen his eyes and stagger.

Dean steadied him and then let go. “I thought you were still up in Seattle?”

“No.” Cas didn’t seem inclined to add anything else.

“Dean?” Sam looked askance at his brother.

“Sorry, yeah. Sam, Cas.” Dean grinned like he was telling a private joke. “Cas, this is my brother, Sam.”

An awkward smile warmed Cas’ expression. “Sam. Dean told me a lot about you.

“Good things,” he added.

“Mostly,” he added again, as if he’d decided truth were more important than reassurance after all.  

“And I’m sure he was exaggerating the rest.”

Sam wasn’t sure whether the guy had the world’s greatest deadpan or if he was just buttoned down that tight, but despite himself, he kind of liked him. And if the unexpected twinge of jealously made him honest, he kind of didn’t.

“You got a gig?” Dean asked after another, slightly too long stretch of silence.

“No,” Cas shook his head.

“Anna here?” Dean prompted.

There was a flicker of something other than the bland impassivity as Cas looked away. “We had creative differences.”

Dean’s expression became sympathetic. “Hey, I’m sorry, man. I thought you guys were Sid and Nancy. Except without the insanity and the death.”

“We weren’t,” Cas replied, with an undertone of very, very faint amusement.

Deadpan then, Sam decided. Probably. “So why are you here?” He asked, as Dean didn’t seem about to.

Silently, Cas looked down. Then he looked up. Then he looked down again. Apparently a plausible lie didn’t come to mind. “Bobby called,” he finally admitted.

“You’re kidding me.” Dean scowled. “Someone needs to cut his phone line. What did he even think you could do? Did guitars get scarier than they used to be?”

Cas considered and then shook his head firmly. “No. He said ‘damn idjits need all the help they can get.’”

After the disconcertingly accurate impression of Bobby’s growl, Cas patted Dean clumsily on the shoulder. “Forget I’m here.”

Dean stared at him. “Yeah, okay – we’ll do that.”

They watched Cas make his way to the bar and then Sam looked sideways at Dean. “Do I want to know?”

“He had a gig at a place I was working in Denver a couple years ago. He’s … “ Dean’s hands moved, trying to shape abstract concepts into words.

“Kind of weird?” Sam hazarded.

“Little weird,” Dean agreed. “Good guy, though. And for a musician, he’s got a sweet left.”

“And Anna?” Sam asked mildly.

Dean smirked. “She’s got a sweet something else.”

Off Sam’s exasperated look, he raised his hands. “Hey, don’t give me that. Anna and Cas weren’t, you know, _exclusive_ … and she wasn’t on the books, she didn’t count as staff.”

“Whatever.” Sam looked around. “Door or floor?”

The rest of the night was punctuated by four pick–ups from the cops, three underage freshmen with huge, unrepentant grins and two women separated before they drew blood.

The last customer left and the jukebox finally, _finally_ , died.

“You didn’t throw a punch all night,” Rafe said, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

The box of confiscated items sat on the bar, half full of trouble averted, waiting for their owners to sober up enough to claim them. Ed peered inside and then grabbed at the jewel of their collection. “Jesus,” he murmured. “Is that Dan Elkins’ colt? How’d you get that off him?”

“Rule three,” Dean said with an earnestly straight face. “ _Be nice_. He’ll be back for it tomorrow. Good guy, for a Broncos fan.”

“ _Be nice_?” Rafe almost choked as Ed put the gun back with almost reverential care. “That ain’t one of John Winchester’s rules.”

“Yeah, we know.” Dean grinned. “Works, though. We’re thinking about keeping it.”

“We are, are we?” Sam shot him a narrow–eyed look, even if he was, despite himself, a little pleased.

Dean’s grin widened. “Hey, you know I’m supportive of fresh new ideas, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me Sammy,” Sam said automatically.

“I like nice,” Cas volunteered from his perch on a stool the end of the bar. “It’s calming. It’s ... nice.”

“You get any calmer and you’ll be in a coma,” Dean said, with a halfway affectionate smile hidden under the scorn. Sam had never seen him wear that for anyone who wasn’t family, or close enough. The unwanted, unearned, stab of jealousy hit again and he looked away.

You left, his own voice drummed in his head. _You_ left.

Cas smiled vaguely. “Good night.“ He dropped gracelessly from his stool and headed for the door.

Lynn watched him go with a speculative expression, lips pursed and order pad tapping lightly against her thigh. Jada rolled her eyes and fished her bag from behind the kitchen door. “Don’t even.”

“You don’t think he’s kinda cute?” Lynn looked wistful as the door swung shut. “I think he’s kinda cute.”

“He’s strung out, how’s that cute?” Jada paused and then looked at Dean uncomfortably. “Sorry, he’s your friend and all.”

Dean shrugged carelessly. “He’s clean. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t, trust me.” He smiled more or less sympathetically at Lynn. “And he’s got a girl, sweetheart. He’s pretty hung up on her.”

“Well, ain’t that always the way.” Lynn gave a heartfelt sigh. “Well, I got a home to go to and a kid to tuck in.” She blew Dean a kiss, and then sauntered into the kitchen, her hips swinging hypnotically.

“You hate junkies,” Sam blurted out when she was gone and the spell over Dean had broken. “What the hell?”

Dean looked almost defensive. “He isn’t a junkie – he’s clean, like I said. And even if he was, you’re always saying anyone can make a mistake, right?”

“Hey, preaching to the choir, man.” Sam held his hands up and smiled a little. “I just remember that thing with that guy in El Paso.”

Dean’s expression darkened belligerently. “He was pushing and his product was for crap. He had it coming.”

“He couldn’t wear pants for a _month_ ,” Sam pointed out. “I heard he still cries when he sees a bottle of tequila. They had to use the _jaws of life,_ Dean _.”_

There were a few seconds of silence as everyone attempted to avoid forming any mental images or speculating in any way whatsoever, and then Ed coughed. “But you’re not hiring this Cas guy too, right? Tommy makes sense, and he’s a good kid, but we can’t afford …”

“There’s a stage under those chairs, yeah?” At Ed’s nod, Dean went on confidently. “Let him play – he’s pretty good, the tips will cover it and you get another pair of eyes on the floor.”

“It’s not the most generous people in the world that come in here,” Haley said doubtfully as she came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a rag. “Trust me,” she added with a wry smile.

Jada nodded her agreement. “A crowd of lechers and tightwads is what you got right here, boys. Night, now.” She ducked out the door and let it slam shut behind her.

“Anyway, if the junkie’s so good, what’s he doing here?” Roy asked acerbically from behind Haley.

Dean grinned through his teeth. “Maybe he just likes your sunny smile, Roy.”

Dean and Roy hadn’t had two polite words to say to each other since they’d met and Sam was keeping the hell out of it. From the way Haley rolled her eyes and walked away, he guessed she felt about the same. He intercepted her at the door and held out two twenties. “Give this to Tommy?”

She stared at the money, but didn’t reach for it. “What for? The tips?” She flushed. “I wasn’t trying to –“

“He earned it,” Sam cut in quickly. “We need eyes outside: someone to call the cops, watch out for trouble. It’s safe, but it’s important.” He smiled, pitching for a mix of friendly and wry. “It used to be my job, I know how much it sucks. He earned it,” he repeated.

The smile relaxed her enough to take the money and fold it into her pocket, but she didn’t look happy about it. “You’ve been doing this a while, huh?”

“Pretty much all my life. I left for a while. Few years. It …” He struggled to keep the smile. “It didn’t work out.”

Her hand touched his own lightly and then drew back. “Whatever it was, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” He ducked his head and then glanced back to where Dean and Roy were still trading barbs. “You know, Dean … he doesn’t mean anything, but if he’s bothering you …”

Haley laughed shortly. “You’re sweet, Sam.” Her smile turned self–conscious. “Honestly? It’s kind of nice. Looking after Tommy and –“ She swallowed. “It’s kind of nice,” she said again.

“Tommy and…?” Sam prodded gently, despite himself.

“Just Tommy and me.” Her mouth pinched as she looked away.

Sam tried to sound like he cared; thought maybe he did, a little. “Maybe we can help.”

Haley shook her head. “You seem like a good guy, but I don’t know you.” A tiny smile reappeared. “Except you’re a Winchester and according to Haro, that makes you a bullet proof son of a bitch.”

He winced and wished that sounded as cool now as it did when he was ten. “Yeah, well, that’s our dad. Me and Dean, we’re not like that.”

Sam glanced back at suddenly raised voices, just in time to see Dean and Roy standing almost toe–to–toe, yelling in each other’s faces. Ed and Rafe looked on from behind the bar with more than a little consternation.

“I’m not like that,” he amended.

“Roy takes some getting used to,” Haley allowed with a half smile. “He’s a good man, though.”

“You two hired on about the same time, right?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Her expression closed.

Unlike Dean, Sam knew when to stop pushing. “You want me to walk you to your car?”

“No, Tommy’s … I got it.” She smiled again. “Have a good evening, Sam.”

He watched her leave and turned back towards the bar to see Roy’s fist flying towards Dean’s head. Startled, Dean ducked and came back with a short rabbit punch to the man’s ribs.

Roy hunched with a grunt and Sam yelled, “ _Dean!_ ”

Dean skipped back out of range with his hands up. “Hey, he started it.”

Sam looked apologetically to Rafe and Ed, but they seemed more amused than angry. “Whatever. Can we _go_?” He scowled and pushed out the door without waiting for Dean’s reply.


	4. Chapter 4

While Dean showered, Sam lay back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling until it started to burn.

Next to him, Jess screamed as her skin blackened and split. He tried to reach her, but something pulled at him, held him back. He cursed and struggled, punched and bit and clawed until he forgot why he was even fighting.

When he was too exhausted to move anymore, when Jess' scream was a whimper and her blood had boiled down to black, he heard someone calling his name.

Sam opened his eyes. For a disorientating moment Dean was standing in the flames, then the shadows extinguished the fire completely. The room became cold and dark and Sam patted at the bed sheets, not quite able to let the nightmare go. He croaked. Tried again. "Dean?"

One of the shadows bent and the bedside lamp flicked on; the room washed over in pale light. Dean stared down with wide eyes, a thin rivulet of blood running down his chin.

Sam untangled himself from the sheets and pulled himself up to sit against the reassuringly solid headboard. "What happened?"

Dean dabbed at his bottom lip and winced, but he looked less freaked out. "Your elbow. You okay? That was pretty intense."

"Yeah," Sam said automatically and blinked rapidly. "Yeah, I'm fine. What time is it?"

"Too damn early," Dean groused as he turned away.

Sam looked at the clock; it was almost 4am. They'd only had a couple hours sleep, but he wasn't going to try for more and he was too restless to just lie there and count the cracks in the ceiling.

He sat up and saw he was still clothed, but his boots were gone. He reached down beside the bed and found them, tugged them on and tied the laces with shaking fingers.

Dean managed to stay silent until Sam reached the door, then he coughed and spoke too nonchalantly. "Heading out?"

"I'll bring back coffee," Sam promised, and hoped this wasn't going to become a thing again, like before he'd left for college. Dean had started asking where he was going all the damn time. Like he'd known, somehow.

Dean dropped back on his bed and turned his back, reaching for the light switch. "Coffee and donuts. With sprinkles. You owe me sprinkles, dude."

The walk into town took less than twenty minutes. Sam wandered the dark streets until they begin to wake up around him, winding up on the sidewalk opposite a diner. He leaned against the wall and watched the staff moving around the bright interior.

They talked, they laughed, they yelled – someone threw a spoon and someone else dropped a whole tray of ketchup bottles. It was a little shard of life so tightly set in its fitting that, by the time the diner opened at six, the world was almost back on its axis.

When the sign flipped to open, he pushed stiffly away from the wall and then jerked back as Danica swung around the corner and into his space.

She grinned up as he recoiled. "Long night, huh? And, _yeah_ , I've been here a while. You looked pretty out of it … buy a girl breakfast?"

She was still wearing the same outfit from the bar, but in the thin daylight, the satin vest was stained and her jeans were threadbare. Her skin was wan and a pattern of tiny cuts and bruises on her cheek blended into the shadows under her eyes. Her fingers rose to cover the marks when she saw him looking and then her hand dropped almost defiantly.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Walked into a door." Her smile was edged and mocking. "Once or twice."

He was off the hook to care and wasn't sure if he was glad or a little disgusted with himself. He tried, he told himself, and she shut him down. Still. "Wear a lot of rings, that door?"

"Don't they all?" She smiled crookedly and walked ahead of him into the diner.

–o–

"I said I'd call, I'm calling." Dean finished tugging on his jacket and then looked around for his keys. He'd come in … he'd turned on the TV ... he'd taken a shower …

"It's gone noon, Dean." Bobby managed to give nuanced layers to his annoyance, even down a bad line. "You said morning – that's _before_ the little hand is on the twelve."

Time to take the offensive. "What the hell were you thinking, calling Cas? He plays guitar, Bobby – what's he going to do?"

"Well for a start, _he can pick up a damn phone_." Bobby sounded unmoved.

Dean paused. "Yeah? That's new."

"He managed to leave a message, anyway." There was a heavy sigh. "Second or third try. Which is the only reason I'm not knocking on your door."

"Thank you, Cas," Dean murmured under his breath.

"I heard that," Bobby said darkly, then went on more tentatively. "How's Sam doing?"

"Good. He's great. He's fine. Never better." Dean winced and, before Bobby could call him on it, admitted, "He went out a while ago. His cell's going to voicemail; I'm going to go look for him."

Bobby was completely silent, but waves of disapproval were still loud and clear. Dean scowled. "He's _fine_ ," he repeated.

"You let him out there on his own?" Bobby asked at last, too mildly.

"In case you didn't notice, Sam's not a kid anymore. I start that shit and he'll be gone so fast..." Dean's mouth twisted. "And if he goes after Meg or Ava on his own, I won't get him back."

"Sam won't run from you." Bobby said with absolute certainty. "You aren't your daddy, boy."

"Tell me something I don't know," Dean muttered as he fished the car keys out from under his pillow. He grabbed his knife while he was there. "I gotta go, Bobby. When I find him, I'll call. Pinkie Swear."

He hung up before Bobby could yell, wrenched open the door and then pulled back sharply to avoid Cas knocking on his face.

The raised fist lowered. "Dean." Cas nodded in greeting. "I was just passing. Somewhere over there." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the highway.

"You're a stone cold master of deception, dude. Come on." Dean pushed Cas' shoulder to spin him and then shoved him gently towards the Impala. "And the next time Bobby calls, you hang up."

Cas allowed the manhandling. "I pressed the buttons, but he kept talking. Where are we going?"

"To find Sam, wherever he's holed up." Dean looked around. "This town got a library? Or a Starbucks? Some foofy art gallery, maybe?"

Cas stopped with his hand on the door. "Sam's in Moe's Diner. With a woman."

"Good for him," Dean said dubiously and slid into the driver's seat. "How do you even know that?"

"I was in Moe's Diner." Cas explained as he carefully buckled his seatbelt. "I wasn't with a woman, but I did have coffee and pie."

Dean turned the engine, looked back over his shoulder, and threw the car into reverse. "Awesome."

–o–

It was lunchtime, but the diner wasn't that crowded; Dean could see Sam and the dealer they'd bounced in a corner booth at the back.

Sam was slumped with his head pillowed on his arms, eyes closed and mouth hanging a little open. Beside him, the dealer sipped her coffee and flicked disinterestedly through the pages of a garishly covered magazine.

She looked up as Dean headed over and raised a finger to her lips when he stopped. "He's asleep," she whispered.

"Yeah, I can see that." Dean gritted his teeth, but he was quiet and careful as he sat. "Danica, right?"

Cas silently took the seat next to him.

"And you're Dean. Sam and Dean Winchester, in our little town," she lisped cloyingly. Her smile sharpened to the point of spite, but softened again when she glanced at Sam. "He was pretty wiped out. I didn't want to wake him up, you know?"

She couldn't be something wholesome, like a stripper or an escort. No, Sammy had to make friends with the local pusher. "Thanks," Dean ground out.

She laughed under her breath at his discomfort. "Don't hurt yourself, Dean."

He gave her an unfriendly smile. "You're not getting back in the bar, you know that, right?"

Her expression tightened, but she shrugged, tried to look unconcerned. "I can take a couple weeks off. Maybe I'll go on holiday. Someplace warm."

"Two weeks, that's all you give us, huh?"

"Maybe a month," she amended, generously.

"Who're you dealing for?" Dean focused on the bruise on her cheek. "Looks like they were pissed."

She shrugged again. "No one you know."

"Silas?" Dean guessed.

Her expression hardened and he nodded. "So what's his deal with the bar, anyway?"

Danica closed her magazine. "It was his brother's. He really, really wants it back – he even tried making an offer."

"His brother's?" Dean tried to ask carelessly, like it didn't matter, but knew he failed when Danica smirked.

"Joe, Silas, and Ed Reed," she said, hissing like they were swapping horror stories around some campfire. "All the bad blood in the world." She dropped the sinister tone abruptly. "There was a sister, too. Karen, Kathy, something like that. She and her mom disappeared back in the eighties."

"You're from around here?" Dean wasn't sure why that surprised him, but it did just the same. Drug dealers weren't meant to have families. Roots.

Her mouth twisted into an unpleasant smile. "I might as well be."

Grudgingly, Dean sympathized. One way or another, he'd seen Danica's story in a hundred little towns that no one ever really made it out of alive. He steered the conversation back on course. "You think Silas wants the bar bad enough to be running off the staff?"

"Sure, but it's not him," she answered easily. "There's a Fed with a hard on for the RICO act on his ass, he wouldn't–."

Sam's hand twitched.

"He wouldn't risk it." When she finished when he settled again.

"Henriksen? I met him. So if it's not Silas, who is it?"

Danica rolled her eyes and looked down at Sam again before tracking back to Dean. Her mouth pinched and there was something scared and young in her expression and her attempt at a smirk did nothing to hide it. "Maybe you want to ask a little closer to home, see what that sweet little waitress and her baby brother have to say. See what the guy they _hired_ has to say."

She gathered her things and stood, careful not to rock the table. "Five weeks, max."

When she'd left, Dean sat back and then looked to Cas. "What do you think?"

"However long you have," he said after a moment, "she has one day less."

So that was – yeah, that was pretty much Cas. Dean shook it off. "Save the morbid for later, dude – you got a gig tonight if you want it. Playing for tips."

"Okay." Cas nodded agreeably, accepting the job the way he accepted everything else life threw his way.

Dean reached across the table and gently shook Sam's arm. "Hey, Sammy. Come join the world of tomorrow, we have hover boards now."

Sam jerked and then straightened. He blinked and squinted against the light and for a horrible moment Dean thought it would be the diner outside Greenfield all over again, but then Sam focused. "Dean? What are you doing here? What time is it?"

"Lunch." Dean mustered a bright smile. "Someone forgot the donuts. I'm starving, what's good to eat?"

Sam blinked owlishly in the face of Dean's brisk enthusiasm. "Where's Danica?"

"She left when we got here – you were drooling on her and she never wants to see you again." Dean leaned into the path of a passing waitress. "Hey, sweetheart. Can I get three coffees and a slice of apple pie? Wait, make it three slices."

Sam turned to the comparative ocean of serenity that was Cas and tried again. "Danica?"

"Stayed until we got here, said a lot and then left." Cas raised a plaintive hand to the waitress as she passed. "I don't want pie."

Dean nodded. "She had some suggestions who we can talk to."

"This is stupid. We're not investigators, Dean." Sam said abruptly. "I was wrong, we should head out now." His eyes were smudged and his hair was rumpled, and Dean guessed whatever sleep he'd gotten in the diner hadn't been a whole lot better than he had at the motel.

The sugar pourer spun between Sam's agitated hands, scraping the table as it wobbled back and forth. Dean reached forward and deftly plucked the helpless victim away. "It's been a day, Sammy. _Sam_. Give it some time. Give Bobby some time."

With nothing else to occupy them, Sam's hands tightened into fists. "I want – I need to find Meg."

"We can't just walk out on the job," Dean said, as reasonably as he could. He wasn't good at this; he'd never been good at this. When Sam wanted something, really wanted something, Dean always found a way to give it to him. This time, he couldn't.

Wouldn't, he told himself. He wouldn't. "Ed and Rafe are in trouble, you want to bail on them? On Haley? On Danica?" He added, in desperation. "You saw her face."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Like you care about them – you were always the first one in the car at the end of a job."

"At the end of the job, sure. Not in the middle, not at the freaking _beginning_." Dean lowered his voice and tried a softer, persuasive approach – from when they were kids and he was trying to get Sam to take a nap, or eat his greens, or stop asking when Dad would come home. "I get it. I do. But Bobby's still getting intel – even if we left today, we got nowhere to go. This way, we're laying low, maybe bringing them to us. And we're earning some money to go on the road with."

" _Intel_. You sound like Dad."

Normally that would be the start of a fight, but Dean managed to keep his mouth resolutely shut until the pie arrived. Cas stared at his unwanted slice almost warily, Sam pushed his around the plate with his fork and Dean ignored them both, eating quickly.

"Okay," Sam said finally. "Fine. I'll give Bobby some time. But if he turns something up, I'm going."

Dean nodded and spoke around a mouthful of apple. "Eat your pie."

Unenthusiastically, Sam speared a piece of crust. "So what's the plan?"

"You're going to go talk to Silas, find out what's going on at the bar. Danica says he's not the one making people disappear – and I'm trusting that about as far as I could throw a truck – but maybe he knows who is. Turns out he's Ed's brother."

"Huh." Sam smiled as if things were looking up. "We don't get in the middle of family disputes, rule six. We can be out of here in an hour."

"Nice try, but Dad would have known and he still took the job, so I guess he figured it was worth it."

"Heprobably heard about the money." Sam's tone was waspish and edged. From the way his jaw clenched and he looked away, he heard it too.

Dean chewed in resolute silence.

And Cas was staring between them like he was watching a spectator sport, more curious than judgmental.

Sam cleared his throat and went on more evenly. "Okay. But why would Silas talk to me?"

"He liked you, you can tell by the way there aren't tire treads where your face used to be." Dean chased the last few crumbs around his plate with his fork. "We both go and it's a challenge. He doesn't know me, so that leaves you – enjoy, try not to come back with any tattoos."

"Great. Where will you be?"

"Asking questions at the sheriff's office. And Danica said Haley and Roy might know something."

Sam paused with his own fork half way to his mouth. "So you get Haley – who's only putting up with you because she's incredibly lonely, by the way – and I get the psychos with guns?"

"You're welcome." Dean grinned sunnily and stole Cas' pie.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam wasn't sure what was worse – that he was kind of glad to have pulled the bikers, or that Dean had known he would be. Asking Haley questions was probably going to be an exercise in gentle compassion that he was too raw to even try.

Of course, 'gentle compassion' wasn't exactly Dean's forte either, but Sam was pretty sure that awkward sincerity would still be better than anything he currently had to offer.

It didn't take long to find the bikers; he just followed the smell of gasoline to a west–side auto–repair shop and wandered through the gates. Seven or eight men in overalls looked up as he entered. He recognized Bandana, working at an engine block.

Silas appeared in the garage office door after a few minutes, wiping his hands on a rag. He stopped for a moment, squinting against the sun, and then unhurriedly made his way over. "Mr. Winchester."

Sam shook his head. "Sam." He smiled crookedly. "Mr. Winchester's my father."

"But it turns out he's not around."

Sam shrugged, not denying it, and looked beyond Silas to where Bandana and the others were starting to gather in an interested crowd.

Time to get to the point. He looked back. "You want us gone – _I_ want us gone – so you're not running off the staff, tell me who is so my brother and I can put this place in our rearview."

Silas tucked his hand rag back into his belt and crossed his arms. "I got a theory, but it ain't free."

"Danica's not getting back in," Sam said shortly. "It's not going to happen."

"So? She's not one of mine." Silas' laugh was brief and cut with gravel. "She tell you she was?" He looked genuinely curious, almost confused.

"Not exactly," Sam admitted. She probably hadn't flat out lied to Dean – Dean had a pretty highly developed bullshit detector – more likely, she'd just let him assume. "So what do you want?"

Silas' eyes glinted, cold and hard. "What's mine." He turned to study the half–dismantled engine lying on the block next to them. "You close with your brother?" he asked, running a clinical eye over the parts.

Sam frowned, not sure where this was going or even how to answer that, because close, close didn't fit right. He guessed it would do. "Yeah, sure."

"That was how it was with me and Joe." Silas nodded, like he understood. "He wouldn't want Ed's hands on the Drift. Never." There was a long pause and Sam didn't break it as Silas' expression wavered from bitterness to regret.

It hardened again when Silas looked back. "You want to know what you can do?" He rubbed a finger at the side of his nose, pretending to think. "Some parts came in, but my boys are all too busy to pick them up. Maybe you can do a small businessman a kindness."

Sam remembered his father's "between jobs" work, when money was tight and he and Dean would leave Sam to his homework and go do whatever it was they had to. By the time Sam was old enough to join them, there'd been no need – the Winchester name had been enough to keep them working almost all year.

He guessed it was probably something very like what Silas was suggesting: the kindness would probably translate to breaking at least one law and probably being shot at for their trouble. Maybe Dean would have considered it, but Sam couldn't risk it, not while they were hunting Meg.

"I'll talk to my brother," he said finally, the most diplomatic answer he could think of.

"You can't make a deal yourself?" Silas' eyebrows rose. "Maybe I got the wrong Winchester."

Sam managed not to laugh in his face. "Yeah, maybe you did."

–o–

Haley and Tommy hadn't been at the Drift when Dean swung by, so he'd headed for the Sheriff's Office instead. It had been easy to find, and quiet enough he'd only had to wait an hour before the Sheriff agreed to see him.

Jacob Buckman was about twenty years and forty pounds past his prime, but his gaze was shrewd and steady. He reminded Dean of the one school principal who'd ever had the guts to call John Winchester in to talk about Dean's attendance; both Dean and his father had gone two weeks of model behavior from shock alone.

He resisted the urge to sit straighter, but slouched as respectfully as he could.

Buckman didn't look impressed. "What can I do you for you – Dean Winchester, right?"

Well that was unsettling. Dean shifted in his seat and tried a winning smile.

The expression opposite didn't change. "Yeah, I know who you are. But no one from the Drift hit the ER last night for the first time in a while, so I guess you got something going for you."

There was an opening there and Dean took it before Buckman started on less shining examples of their work. "The Drift's kind of what I wanted to ask about. We don't work the long jobs – we clean up the floor, train the staff, and move on.

"Thing is, we can't train staff that aren't there. You know anything about that?"

Buckman stared for a long moment and then leaned forward, planted his elbows on the table and steepled thick fingers. "There's no money hid in that bar, son."

Dean tried a deprecating shrug. "Okay, you got me. I know about the bank job, but seriously, it's not what we're there for. Ask Ed Reed."

Now Buckman smiled, and it wasn't pleasant. "Oh, I did. You better believe that. Winchesters roll up in my town and I'm asking all kinds of questions."

Awesome. Dean straightened warily and wondered if he could make it out the window; they were only on the second floor. "How'd you like the answers?"

"You keep incidents down and we have an _understanding_. As for the disappearances, they're part of an ongoing investigation, which I am not at liberty to discuss." Buckman poked at a pile of papers, the universal signal for 'Get the hell out of my office.' "We done?"

-o-

As he left the building, a hand descended on Dean's shoulder. He turned blindly, gripped the offending arm by the wrist and pulled it sharply in front of him; with his other hand, he pushed down hard just above the elbow.

Then he registered it was Henriksen, bent over and cursing as he tried to keep his shoulder from separating. "Son of a _bitch_!"

Gingerly and kind of against his better judgment, Dean let go. He helped Henriksen straighten and hovered solicitously, if unhelpfully, until Henriksen pushed him irritably away.

"Sorry, man. I tripped?"

Henriksen stared in disbelief. "You tripped, fell, and assaulted a federal agent? That's what you're going with?"

"I defended myself against an unknown assailant," Dean corrected. "The federal agent part was a bonus."

"Fortunately for you, this is not an incident report I want to write up." Henriksen massaged his arm with a scowl.

"What do you want, Very Special Agent?"

Henriksen tugged at his collar and straightened his tie, frowned at his cuff when he saw a button was hanging by a thread.

"World peace, an end to hunger, decent cell coverage across all fifty of these fine states and for the Cardinals to make the playoffs," he reeled off and then looked up. "But right now? Just three things, and you're going to help me with two of them. Let's walk."

Dean fell into step beside him as they headed away from the Sheriff's Office. "The Cardinals are cursed, dude – just let it go."

"Three things," Henriksen repeated firmly. "I want to find five missing people, I want to shut Silas down and I want to talk to your brother. Two out of three, Dean. Which two? That depends on you."

He felt his expression freeze and didn't know into what, except Henriksen stopped in his tracks, and then smiled sharply. "So that reputation really does come out of somewhere, huh?"

"Go to hell." Dean turned away and kept walking.

Henriksen followed. "And if you don't cooperate on this – if you both don't cooperate – Sam isn't the only one I'll be wanting to talk to. Two thousand and one: double murder in Lawrence, cold case. It can warm right up, Dean."

No way he was taking that bait. "We're just working the floor, we don't know anything."

"See, I happen to know Sam's at the club's repair shop right now and you just went to talk to our fine, upstanding local Sheriff, so I'd say you're both doing a little more than your job description.

"And, you know, I may just be the only person in town who doesn't think you're here for the money."

Dean kept his mouth clamped shut.

"How _is_ John, by the way?" Henriksen asked a beat later, running with his new angle. "He did have this job first, right? You'd think after that business with the Resh family, with Miss Moore, he'd at least come see how his boys are doing. Or maybe it's not him you're waiting for."

It was an almost insultingly old cop trick: dropping a barrage of information mines and watching what rose to the surface. Dean had been on the receiving end more than once, but unfortunately that didn't make it any easier. He gritted his teeth and still didn't answer.

"Five missing people and Silas," Henriksen said again. "You help me and in return, I'll forget I saw you two."

Dean shot him a dark look. "You going to do your job at all, or just sit in the bar and drink?"

"I'll be watching, Dean." Henriksen smirked. "I'll always be watching."

–o–

The key turned in the motel door and Sam glanced up from his book. He folded the page corner and tucked it back under his pillow when Dean entered and then threw himself at his bed with a groan. "Went well, huh?"

"Oh, sure, went great," Dean said, muffled through the mattress. He rolled and sat up; Sam caught the edge of a tightly pensive expression just before Dean broke into a wide grin. "I've been thinking–"

"Dean."

"You know, you were right: we should hit the road and Dad, he's probably–"

" _Dean_."

"What?"

"Stop trying to play me and just tell me what's going on."

The grin faded. "We're leaving," Dean said flatly. "Right now. We pack our shit and we're gone."

"Is it Meg?" Sam straightened. "She's here? Because this is what we were waiting for and I am not–"

Dean cut him off with a wave of his hand. "It's the Fed, Henriksen. He wants us to help him pin Silas and find the missing staff. And if we don't, he's coming for us."

"So? Dean, _I didn't kill Jess_." Sam threw his hands up in the air, more disappointed it wasn't Meg than concerned about Henriksen. "I'll answer any questions he has: I'll tell him about the Gallaghers, about Resh and Meg, about Mom, about Dad, about–"

Sam paused. Replayed. " _Us_? Why would he want to talk to you?"

"Traffic tickets," Dean muttered, crouching to drag his bag out from under the bed.

"So there's no reason to leave, is there? No reason at all." Sam spoke quietly, but kept the challenge in his tone. He watched Dean's expression shift from defensive to frustrated and right back again, tried to feel bad about putting his brother in a lose–lose situation. Didn't. Couldn't.

"Guess not," Dean finally ground out. "I thought you'd be the first out the door."

"Bobby called while you were out – Gordon Walker was in town."

"Walker." Dean blinked. "He still around?"

"Maybe. More likely he stayed long enough to see that Dad wasn't here and then lit out, but that means the plan's working: if Ava figured out we were here so quickly, Meg will too.

"I'm staying, but you could go," Sam added after a moment, and knew it was a cheap shot.

Dean snorted, more amused than angry. "Right, sure." He stood again, pushing the bag back under the bed with his foot. "Go. Stay. You never could make up your freaking mind, Sammy. What did you get from the Outlaws?"

For once, Sam let the name slide. "Silas said Joe would have wanted him to have the bar, so maybe Ed cheated him out of it. I guess he keeps the pressure on, busts the place up sometimes, but he says he hasn't touched the staff. He has a theory, but he won't tell unless we do a pick up for him.

"It didn't seem like a great idea at the time, but now it might work out for us. I can't talk Silas into something, that's entrapment, but if we take the job and give Henriksen the details…"

"We die of chronic Outlaws," Dean finished for him. "If Henriksen doesn't turn on us first. And Bobby says _my_ plans suck."

"And he said that Danica wasn't pushing for him." Sam added, ignoring the outburst.

"So there's another player." Dean rubbed at the back of his neck and looked wistfully out the window. "That's great."

It was probably time to change the subject. "Did you find Haley?"

"I did not," Dean said, tone lightening, "but Tommy was in the library. He's like you, with better hair. Anyway, the missing college kid, Ben? Is Haley and Tommy's brother. Roy's a PI; they hired him to go looking and when they ran out of money to pay him, they upped sticks and came out. Haley and Tommy are pretty much living out of their car."

Sam shook his head, confused. "There's still no way Haley's earning enough money at the bar to pay a private investigator."

"They aren't paying him at all," Dean said uncomfortably. "She wouldn't go and he wouldn't leave them here."

Sam smiled in the face of Dean's disgruntled expression. "Man, what a _jerk_."

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, Ben called Haley the night before he went missing. He said he'd found something and he had a meeting with a woman – and he sounded pretty excited."

"The money," Sam concluded. "He actually found it. You think the woman was Danica?"

Dean clearly wanted to say yes, but reluctantly shook his head. "I don't think she'd have pointed us to Roy and Haley if it was."

"That hurt a little, didn't it?"

"Yeah, little bit," Dean admitted, looking pained. "Maybe it's whoever Danica works for. Or someone else in the bar. Jada? Lynn?"

They both took a moment to try and picture either woman as a criminal mastermind.

Dean shook his head. "Yeah, I'm thinking no. And she's not working for anyone else in the bar either. Haro cares about fries, baseball and model trains, and that's it."

"Model trains?"

"He's got a pretty sweet set up," Dean said with sudden enthusiasm. "It's not just trains, there's cars and trees, and these tiny little people and animals and–"

Sam stared, open–mouthed. Dean flushed and rapidly changed the subject. "So anyway, Roy's the only one really working the case. I guess I'll go buy him a beer. I'm pretty sure this is going to hurt worse than that thing at Ellen's place."

"Wow." Sam said, and struck. "Maybe you should just pay those traffic tickets. It was traffic tickets, right?"

"Let it go, Sammy." Dean's voice was low and quiet, and a little bit resigned. The same tone he'd used when the yelling got too loud, or the bitter silences between Sam and John had lasted too long; the one Sam always heard as _please_ , even if Dean would never, ever actually say it.

Low ball, but Sam hadn't exactly played fair either. "It's maybe five–hundred in fines," he said. "Suspended license. Few days in jail, if you mouthed off, which you would."

Dean didn't try to deny it. "The hell they're taking my license. So I'll go talk to Roy. You go talk to Silas. See you at the bar."

Sam watched Dean leave and then reached for the room phone; he dialed from memory. Their father had made them repeat the digits again and again and again when they were kids: their own personal emergency service.

It picked up on the second ring. "Dean? We've talked about the big hand and the little hand, right?"

"It's Sam again, Bobby."

"Sam?" Bobby's gruffness eased up a little. "Something happen?"

"I'm fine. Dean's fine. And you know he has a digital watch, right?"

"Huh, explains a few things. Well, you aren't calling to discuss the time of day, so what's the problem?"

"No problem, just a little history I thought maybe you could help me with. Two–thousand one, what did Dad and Dean do?"

"Few jobs … pretty quiet year as I recall." Bobby was silent as he thought for a moment, then. "I know they swung by you a couple times, if that's what you're working your way around to asking. And don't get all riled up about it, a father's going to keep looking out for their kid whether they like it or not."

"I'm not mad, Bobby." At least that explained how Dean knew the area as well as he did. "I just –– did they go back to Lawrence?"

"Well, that would be seven kinds of crazy and John levels out around five, so, no."

Sam leaned against the wall; through the window, he saw the Impala pull around the corner, gone from sight. "And where does Dean level out at?"

"Look, Sam." Bobby was silent again and Sam could picture his expression exactly, every misgiving written clear across his face; the determination to do the right thing always running up against his concern for them all. Sam didn't push him. It wouldn't help.

"Whoever took out the Gallagher brothers did the world a favor," Bobby finally said, laying his words so carefully Sam wondered if he thought they'd explode. "But it wasn't John and it wasn't Dean."

"How sure about that are you? Because you need to be really, really sure, Bobby. There's a Fed here asking questions and I'm pretty sure that's one of them. And Dean's… Dean."

"Swear to God, you boys have given me every gray hair I have," Bobby growled after a moment. "Just get the job done and get out,"

That sure.

"Okay, thanks Bobby."

"Listen, I really am sorry about–"

"Yeah." Sam dropped the phone back in the cradle. Everyone was sorry.

He hung his head for a moment. Took a breath. Took one more, then straightened and pulled the phonebook towards him.


	6. Chapter 6

The Drift was opening by the time Sam got there and he threaded his way quickly though the thin, early crowd towards the bar. He stopped when he saw that the stage had been cleared of debris and Cas was setting a chair exactly dead center.

He was still wearing the same tan duster and one of a series of almost indistinguishable gray t–shirts and ripped up jeans, but he'd added a battered looking guitar to the ensemble. He took the seat at the mic without fanfare; no one even glanced at him.

A few chords were strummed; a deceptively simple sounding riff with intricate string work, which Sam suspected was lost on most of the people in the room. Something must have spoken to them, though, because the noise died down, just a little.

The tune began to resolve itself into one Sam recognized, but slower and less plaintive than other covers he'd heard.

" _She would never say where she came from_ ," Cas sang, in a rough, almost angry whisper, with an intensity that Sam wouldn't have guessed he was capable of. " _Yesterday don't matter if it's gone._ "

Sam listened for a little longer, caught in the story that Cas told like he knew a girl, like he loved her. Like he lost her.

"He's pretty good," he admitted when Dean wandered up next to him. "But if he covers _Master of Puppets_ , I'll break his fingers."

Dean whistled under his breath. "You're not hanging out with those Outlaws any more, young man – they're a bad influence."

"Job's on for tomorrow. What did you get from Roy?"

"Yeah, you know, I haven't caught up with him yet." Dean's eyes shifted away guiltily.

"Are you _seriously_ ducking the only guy who might be able to help us get Haley's brother back and out of this town?"

" _When you change with every new day … still I'm gonna miss you,_ " Cas finished _a capella_ , guitar strings silenced under his palm. His voice died away and the crowd clapped with more enthusiasm than Sam would have thought possible.

Behind the bar, even Rafe looked surprised.

When Sam looked back, Dean had taken the opportunity to escape.

Cas nodded an acknowledgement of the applause without smiling and plucked at the strings again; he took a slow, deep breath and began to tell a more attentive crowd that people are strange, when you're a stranger, and that faces look ugly, when you're alone.

–o–

At close, no one had called the cops, no fights had broken out, and Cas was staring blankly at maybe a couple hundred bucks in ones and fives.

"What was that song at the end?" Haley asked curiously. "About the guy who was always waiting?"

"I wrote it for a friend."

"It's kind of sad."

"Yes," he nodded somberly. "My friend's sad, sometimes."

"Sad's good," Dean said authoritatively. "Nothing better than a roomful of emo drunks crying too hard to start a fight. And they tip great, which doesn't help me and Sam – no one tips for getting thrown out on their ass with care and attention – but you guys …" He whistled appreciatively at the pile of crumpled notes. "Score."

Cas took a few fives and pushed the rest of the notes across the table towards Haley. She frowned at him. "You want me to put that into twenties for you?"

"They're yours. Tip sharing."

"No, I–"

"Tip. Sharing," Cas repeated slowly, like he was desperately hoping they were magic words.

She flushed and nodded stiffly. "Thank you."

Dean watched Cas leave and then looked over at Haley; she was pale, caught in that sickly place between grateful and humiliated, pride and need. "Cas … he doesn't really get it, you know?" He said quietly. "What it's like to do what you got to do."

She laughed bitterly and gathered the money up. "I said I'd give anything to get my brother back, what's a little self–respect?"

"Giving anything for family, self–respect is what you keep." Dean replied, and meant it. He glanced at Sam, talking with Ed at the bar. When he looked back, Haley was studying him with a tiny frown and he shifted uncomfortably, then leered, just to be safe. "But if you want something to make you feel better …"

"Why, Dean." She sashayed closer, and let a touch of Mae West slide into her drawl. "What _did_ you have in mind?"

He swallowed and backed up a step. "Hot chocolate? Pint of ice–cream, maybe?"

She grinned. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Say goodnight to Sam for me."

–o–

The smoke smothered him, made him gasp for air and never let the air come, until Sam was coughing and retching, and reaching for Jess.

Always reaching for Jess.

–o–

"I don't know, Bobby. I think he's getting worse. It's like …"

"Like he's John Winchester's son?" Bobby suggested flatly.

Dean grimaced, but Bobby wasn't wrong. "Anything new?"

"Nothing since Walker. Turns out you got lucky: he's not hanging around one place too long at the moment. Seems some Feds want to ask him some questions.

"Meg's off the map. You say you got a Fed down there, could be he'd help you if he's got a mind to."

Dean shook his head firmly, even if Bobby couldn't see it. "Not this one, trust me. I though Feds were meant to be all about bad suits and incorruptibility."

"Nope," Bobby said mildly.

"That was different. You're …"

"Corruptible?"

"A friend, Bobby. You're a friend."

"Yeah, right. Friends, you remember to call," Bobby groused. "I get one more two-words-a-minute message from that stoned out hippie and I'm shooting a goddamned whale. Talk to the Fed, what've you got to lose?"

"I don't know, Bobby. You tell me – four to six?"

"Eh, less if you co-operate. Finish the job first, that way you can leave fast if you have to. "

Dean snorted and glanced at the bathroom door; the shower was still running. "Your silver linings suck."

"Yeah, yeah. Cope. I do have something about the Reeds for you, though. Looks like Joe wasn't the only one to make it out of the robbery alive.

"I asked an old friend to look over the case file and I just don't see how they could have pulled off the robbery without someone on the inside. The police didn't consider that possibility, but my friend did a little digging.

"Carrie O'Dell started as a teller a month before the robbery, left a week later. Not surprising, with the trauma, but then she just disappears. No electronic trail, no paper trail, nothing. Like she fell off the face of the Earth."

"Okay," Dean prompted. "So?"

"You do any of your own homework at all? The mother's maiden name was O'Dell. Carolyn Reed, Carrie O'Dell, that ringing any bells?"

"Okay, Bobby, I get it. The sister who went missing back in the eighties, right?"

"Right. She and the mother, Maggie. Both up and disappeared when Carolyn was fifteen."

Dean frowned. "There wasn't an investigation? Wait, this is a town were five people can go missing from one place and the Sheriff is _understanding_. Never mind."

"Could be they didn't see a reason to look that hard. Papa Reed had write ups for drunk and disorderly, domestic call outs – spent more than a few nights in jail. Real son of a bitch, but Maggie never pressed charges. Something bad must have happened to make her take Carolyn and leave.

"Anyway, the old man died six months before the robbery and it looks like little sister came home for some reason. Maybe she told Joe, maybe he just recognized her, either way she got involved. When it went down, she ran again."

"She didn't stay gone," Dean said, sure this had to be Ben's 'woman.' "Thanks, Bobby. Gotta go," he added, when the bathroom door opened. He clicked the cell shut and tucked it back into his pocket.

Sam was already dressed and toweling at his damp hair. He paused and raised an eyebrow. "Bobby again?"

"Yeah, I'll tell you on the way."

–o–

The location Silas gave them for the pick up turned out to be a crossroads some thirty miles from town, right in the middle of range country, where the asphalt was barely holding on against the soil, and the land was so flat it ran right into the horizon.

Dean parked the Impala on the verge, swinging the car around to put the driver's side away from the road. Instinctively, Sam felt they should be doing this in the dark, but when he said the same, Dean shook his head. "Nope, everyone wants to see who's there. Nice open country, no surprises."

"Voice of experience?"

Dean shrugged. "I watch a lot of television."

"Thanks," Sam said, after a couple of seconds.

Dean looked bemused. "No problem, it's mostly re–runs."

"I mean." Sam gnawed at his lip. "I know you did things you didn't tell me about."

"Man, you have no idea. One time there was this girl, Sandi –" he paused. "Candi? Anyway–"

Sam groaned quietly and sunk lower in his seat. "Say, 'You're welcome,' Dean."

"You're welcome, Dean," Dean parroted. "And you have no idea what you're missing."

In the distance, a cloud of dirt kicked up and Sam could see the dark shape of a large car, maybe a truck, in front of it. Dean rolled his shoulders and opened his door. "Stay inside."

"Yeah." Sam reached for the door handle. "That's not going to happen."

"Sammy, for once, _listen_ to me. Stay on the driver's side and keep the engine running. Do not leave the car. You do that and we lose our out." Almost off–handedly, he added, "There's a gun in the dash."

Dean was out of the car before Sam could argue. Grinding his teeth, he shifted seats and opened the dash. Instead of his own Taurus, he found Dean's colt .45.

Which meant Dean was unarmed and it had to be deliberate, but for the first time Sam felt uneasy. Which was crazy, because nothing about this set up was good, but Dean had treated it like business as usual and Sam had … totally fallen for it, he realized.

Again. _Dammit_.

The truck pulled up on the other side of the road and three men climbed out, including the driver. They were all wearing surprisingly nice suits over open shirts, tattoos curling out from under the collar and cuffs.

Two of the men hung back whilst the third, larger and buzz cut, came forward with a wand. He ran it over Dean quickly and then stepped back with a grunt.

Dean lifted his jacket and turned, proving he was unarmed. "No wires," he said with a smile. "No gun. Just here for a pick up, fellers. Nice day for it, huh?"

Buzzcut withdrew back to the side of the car and one of the other men walked forward. He tugged at his cuffs and Sam saw something small glitter. "Payment," the moneyman said with a Slavic accent.

Sam swore under his breath and Dean's smile froze. Silas had said payment had already been made and there was no way he'd accept them just walking away. Sam seriously doubted that Henriksen would either.

"I have to confirm the package first." Dean tried with a 'what can you do' shrug and a disarming smile. "Then I tell Silas it's all good and he transfers the money. The man's gone digital. Finally. Am I right?"

The moneyman didn't return the smile. The second man, who had a wicked scar running from hairline to chin, shook his head and muttered something. Buzzcut lumbered forward again.

Moneyman raised a hand – _wait_ – and smiled thinly, without amusement. "You are very funny. Payment. Now. Or leave and tell Silas this was his last chance."

"Walk away," Sam murmured under his breath and for just a second he thought Dean somehow heard as he backed up a step and half turned.

And then swung a punch designed to end up somewhere half a foot behind Buzzcut's head. The man raised an arm, faster than anyone that big had a right to be, sending the punch harmlessly over his shoulder. His two large hands descended on Dean's collar, lifted and threw him to the ground like meat.

Dean rolled, gasping in a lungful of air, and kicked out hard. Buzzcut staggered back, clutching at his knee while Dean scrambled back to his feet.

"Stay in the car!" He yelled, without looking back.

Sam's resolution to do as asked lasted as long as it took for the two other men to start reaching into their jackets.

He opened the door and slipped out in a half crouch, trying to keep the body of the car between him and the guns he was pretty sure were going to be turning his way. He released the safety on the colt and barely aimed before sending a bullet into the ground between Scarface and the moneyman.

They barely paused, drawing guns from their jackets and breaking left and right to flank him. He swung back and forth, shocked by the speed and unable to process which was the greater threat.

He was dimly aware of Dean and Buzzcut closing in again as he slid back into the car and pressed on the accelerator. The Impala jumped forward, slamming solidly into Scarface and sending him reeling into off the road, gun flying somewhere into the undergrowth.

One down.

Sam almost had the gears in reverse when he felt the cold press of a barrel against the back of his neck.

He froze.

"Gun," the moneyman said shortly.

With few other options available, Sam raised his hands to his shoulders. A hand reached forward and relieved him of the gun now swinging by its trigger guard around his thumb.

"Out," the man said, and the pressure on the back of his neck reduced.

Once he climbed out of the car again, Sam could see Buzzcut had made it back to his feet and was glaring murderously from behind the gun he was holding on Dean.

Dean kept his hands raised, but turned his head to talk to Sam as he was herded closer. "Pretty sure I told you to stay in the car."

"I got bored," Sam said, drawing up next to him. "Leave a magazine next time."

He should be scared, he knew, and he was, in a distant kind of way. But ahead of that was something almost familiar, he realized in a sudden rush of adrenaline and something very like elation. This was no different to any bar they'd been in. No different at all. Rules one through three were in effect and when they played by the rules, they ran the floor.

Dean was watching, his mouth curled in a faint smile as Sam got it.

"No next time," moneyman said sharply. "Where is the money?"

"Dude, if we had the money, I swear to God, we would have given it to you. Go ask Silas."

Scarface walked to the Impala while Dean watched with growing concern. "Hey! I'm telling the truth, leave her alone!"

Moneyman shot him an irritated look and gestured for Scarface to continue. He popped the trunk and after a quick search that saw Sam's old kitbag go flying to the ground, he stepped back shaking his head. "Nothing."

"They buried it." Buzzcut said.

"Did the part where Silas didn't give us anything not translate?" Dean demanded. "Look, either he's trying to kill us – and you've met us, so you have to admit that's not completely impossible – or he thought we might actually pull this off and he's trying to screw you over.

"Either way," he concluded, "your problem is with him."

Buzzcut's scowl deepened and he limped deliberately closer.

"Okay, _your_ problem might be with me," Dean allowed, stepping back into Sam and coincidentally staggering them both closer the Impala. "You should get some ice on that."

The three men spoke rapidly between themselves and Sam tilted his head in question.

Dean shrugged. "At a guess? They're trying to work out whether to kill us here or somewhere a little closer to the acid and lye bargain warehouse."

"Henriksen…?"

"He doesn't want these guys; he's not going to do anything. Except laugh his ass off, if he's watching."

Scarface turned with a snarl. "Quiet!"

"Or what? You'll shoot us?" Sam asked politely.

"Or I make you _wish_ I shoot you."

Sam waited until the men had gone back to their deliberation – one was now pulling out a cellphone – and then spoke quietly. "Plan?"

"I was hoping for a nice, unmarked grave near the water."

" _Dean._ "

"I told you not to get out the car!"

"You were getting your ass kicked!"

Dean lowered his hands and shoved, Sam let himself get staggered back towards the car. "You don't listen," Dean yelled.

"Then say something worth listening to!"

The men watched them square up with contemptuous amusement, too sure of the guns in their hands. Sam was faintly surprised it was working, because he was pretty sure it was a standard set up from every movie he'd ever seen.

He pulled Dean closer, trying to get enough momentum to turn him and shove at the same time, but Dean wouldn't budge from his position between Sam and the guns. For a second Sam thought he'd misread the play and then he understood what Dean was trying to do.

Not this time.

Dean was stubborn, and strong, but Sam had had the advantage of height and leverage since he was sixteen. He used it. Sam pulled harder than Dean had been expecting, threw him into the Impala and heard the metal creak in protest.

For a moment Dean's outrage was entirely genuine. If Sam lived, he had the feeling he'd wish he hadn't.

He turned to see two guns rising as the men finally caught on, but he was already running towards them. He slammed into Buzzcut, sending him reeling into Scarface and bringing them both down, but moneyman jumped clear and there was no way in hell that Sam was going to reach him in time.

His shoulders tensed against the shot, and it came, loud and shattering.

But the pain didn't.

He turned and saw the moneyman rocking on his feet with a red stain blooming under the hand he'd pressed to his shoulder. His gun dropped from nerveless fingers and Dean strode forward to kick it well away.

Sam unfroze and turned and dropped to punch Buzzcut hard in the jaw as he tried to roll away. The man crumpled in on himself, lights out. Sam made it to his feet as Scarface began to raise his gun; stamped down on Scarface's wrist until the fingers spasmed and released.

Dean ambled over almost casually, the Taurus that had been in Sam's kitbag in his hand, and smiled down. _Nicely_.

Scarface blanched.

"We done?" Sam asked, and pressed a little harder.

"Done," the man agreed through gritted teeth.

Dean crouched at Scarface's side, dangling the gun between his knees. "Here's the thing, and I need you to listen closely: we were telling the truth. There's no money, but we need to take the package. Believe me, I wish we didn't.

"But here's the good news: Silas is about to have an even worse day than you."

Moneyman growled as he hauled himself back to his feet and then pressed his hand tightly to his shoulder again. Scarface tentatively tried to raise his hand. Sam stepped back to let him. He stayed ready, but all the man did was start to drag Buzzcut towards the truck.

"We will see you again," Moneyman promised as he passed them.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean waved him off.

Sam grabbed the suitcase from the hood of the truck and then backed towards Dean, stooping to retrieve the Colt before he joined him in the Impala. Dean barely let him get the door closed before stepping on the accelerator and peeling it back towards town.

Sam let out a breath.

"I can't believe you did that," Dean said, when they were sure the truck wouldn't be appearing in the rearview mirror.

Sam was wondering what to defend first, but Dean went on. "You dinged my baby. _Twice_. I thought I knew you, man."

"I'll pop the dents," Sam promised. "You'll never know the difference."

"She's traumatized." Dean stroked the wheel.

"We're _alive_?" He pointed out. "What's in the case?"

"Don't know, don't care, really not going to ask."

Sam settled back. "Next time, you can stay in the car."

–o–

Feeling just a little used, Dean dropped Sam off at the corner Silas had told him to wait at and then headed for the location Henriksen had arranged.

He parked a block away and jogged to Henriksen's rental. A burger wrapper fell out when he opened the door and the air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror was somehow making the greasy smell worse.

"I'm going catch something," he said as he sat. "This is gross, dude."

"Yeah, yeah." Henriksen kept his binoculars trained on the street corner two blocks down where Sam was still standing, waiting.

"Your people are there, right?" Dean said. "Because if anything happens to my brother…"

"You threatening a federal agent, Dean?" Henriksen's smile glinted, but there was more amusement than warning in there.

"No, I'm threating you, the federal part's still just a bonus."

Henriksen snorted. "All Sam has to do is make the hand off and walk away. Silas won't be there, he's too careful for that, but we'll get at least one of his crew and that's enough to start picking away."

They watched as a car drew up beside Sam; Henriksen hissed and leaned forward as if he was watching a Hail Mary. The car's window opened and Sam slid the case in.

A moment later, a folded sheet of paper came out. Sam took it and the car pulled away.

Henriksen dropped the binoculars and picked up his radio, barking rapid orders while Dean slipped away. He waited in the Impala, idly watching the kids play softball in the playground until the door opened and Sam dropped into the seat.

He handed over the paper wordlessly; Dean opened it and found a smudged photocopy of a birth certificate.

"Danica O'Dell. Mother, Carolyn Reed, father … Huh." The original entry of 'Unknown' had been crossed out in pen and a name printed in firm block letters. Dean raised his head. "You think he knows?"

Sam shrugged. "No. Maybe? If he does, and he's in on it, he's got the best poker face I've seen. And why would he be so keen to have us around?"

"Doesn't make sense that Danica pointed us to Haley and Roy either, but she did. Why?"

"If we can find her, we can ask her."


End file.
